The Darkest Moments
by Naisa
Summary: Spoilers for Reichenbach Fall. How do the characters feel now Sherlock has been torn away from them? Sad, angry, guilty, nothing? What are their darkest moments? Chapter 11, final chapter - and what has Sherlock been doing all this time? What are his thoughts, and what's next for him? Some Irene/Sherlock. Complete.
1. A Silent Prayer

_I know there are probably lots of fics out there right now about what John Watson's going through now Sherlock's 'dead', but this just came to me so I thought I would put it up :)_

_I hope you like it, reviews much appreciated! _

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><p><span>The Darkest Moments, Chapter 1<span>

A Silent Prayer

I see him in my dreams. Flashes of his life rushing past me as if being carried by a sea in the middle of a terrible storm. The images are worse than the ones I saw after I left Afghanistan, even when they're happy ones. His grinning face as he reveals the stolen ash tray, the anger in eyes when he tells me he has no friends, his fearful expression when I'm wearing a bomb for a jacket. I hear his voice, trembling with sorrow and fear as he makes his last phone call, telling me that he was a fake, a fraud, but how can I believe him with so much evidence proving that he was the man and friend that he has always been to me? But there is nothing I can do, I am helpless as his figure, which is suddenly very small, stands above me. All I can do is stare as he falls through the air and smacks into the concrete.

I hear a little girl screaming as he falls, the little girl who saw his face and was filled with terror, who made the first seed out doubt begin to grow in everyone's minds. Then there's a terrible thud as Sherlock's journey comes to an end. His empty eyes stare up at me as I look down as his blood-spattered body.

And yet I still can't believe he's dead.

Sometimes I go on my lap top and start typing my blog, only to realise I have nothing to write, there are no more adventures. Sometimes I go home and expect to find him curled up on the sofa, but he's gone. I wake up in the morning and think I hear gun-shots, and for a moment I believe it's Sherlock shooting the wall again, but after a moment I realise it is nothing but hammer and nail, people are still finishing off the repair work downstairs.

God, I need to get out of Baker Street. But I have nowhere else to go, it's no easier finding a place than it was when I first met...Sherlock (sometimes it's so hard to say his name, but I don't know why). When I try looking for another place to live, a feel lost in a world of the unknown. I want to be back in the chase again, I may have been useless and probably more of a hindrance than a help, but I want to be solving those crimes again, no matter how terrifying or dangerous they can sometimes become. I want that life back.

Because now my life is empty.

Mrs Hudson says she can hear me scream in my sleep, screaming "please don't be dead, please don't be dead" but I pretend I don't know what she's talking about. I try to act like nothing has happened, things have gone back to the way they were before and there was no such thing as a consulting detective…

…And perhaps there never was…

Sherlock's last words have torn me apart and I don't know which way to turn, sometimes I don't know if I can cope any more.

Has my life ended with his? In the darkest of moments, I think it has.

There have been times when I just stand up and walk out of the flat, knowing I desperately need some air. But the streets of London are crowded and polluted, there is no place to think, there is nowhere to breathe.

I've only just started to realise I've stopped talking to people. I hardly see Mrs Hudson because I'm avoiding her, I pretend to forget to call Harry, but really I just know if she hears me speak she'll know something's wrong, and I can't let her know that. Lestrade sometimes tries to ring me, what he'd want to say I don't know, and I will never know, because I never answer his calls.

I'm glad I don't see Mycroft often, I wouldn't be able to look him in the eye. It was his fault that Moriarty had created this whole web of lies around Sherlock.

Or were they lies?

Why would Sherlock's last words confirm that lie, unless they were true?

I walk past a telephone box and hope that it rings, so I can beg down the phone to Mycroft that it was all made up, my friend is not a fraud, he can't be. You have to tell me, you have to believe me. Sherlock is NOT a fraud!

It better be just a phone call, because if I saw Mycroft for real I might kill him.

Is it unfair to blame everything that happened on that one person? Maybe, but I suppose it's human nature to find a scapegoat, and when they found Moriarty's dead body on the roof (if that man really _was _Moriarty) I can't really blame him.

I just need to know that Moriarty was a real person, that what was said about Sherlock at the end was just a story, a fairy tale. I need to know that this is not Sherlock's end.

I visit Sherlock's grave sometimes, and once or twice I think I spot a tall figure wearing a long, black coat that gently waves in the breeze. But I look again and the figure's gone.

I see the look on my psychiatrist's face sometimes, I know she thinks I'm crazy. But when I keep on seeing Sherlock's silhouette as I walk down the street and when I look at his grave, maybe she's right.

I've never really had that much faith, but at times when I find my life's coming to an end, I start a silent prayer.

Please God, let me live.

Please God, let Sherlock be alive.

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><p><em>I'm leaving this one shot as 'in-progress' as I'm thinking of carrying this on into a short story about different character's thoughts and emotions about Sherlock's death - sound like something worth doing? :)<em>

_Thanks for reading! Again reviews much appreciated :)_


	2. Just Like a Normal Person

_I realised I have too many ideas to just leave this as a one-shot, so I've decided I'm going to carry it on :)_

_This chapter is on Mycroft's thoughts now his brother has died, I hope it's OK!_

_Only one review for the last chapter! :(_

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><p><span>The Darkest Moments, Chapter 2<span>

Just Like a Normal Person

They offered to give me the day off work today, I politely declined. I missed the expression in their eyes as they nodded and turned away. Did they see it as strange that the death of my brother had just become public, printed all over the newspapers, and yet I was acting as if there was nothing wrong, as if nothing had happened? Flung himself off a building they say, couldn't live with the guilt of fooling everyone into thinking he was a real consulting detective, they assume. Do normal people need to take the day off for that?

How do normal people mourn? Some of them cry, some of them scream, some of them bury their head in the sand, others just stay silent, but you can see what's happening to their heart in their eyes. But I'm not normal people, so how will I react to the death of my brother?

Our relationship had never been smooth, certainly not. What did Sherlock used to call me? An arch enemy, oh how amusing. I don't think we have ever got on, there was something about us from the start that drove a ridge between the two Holmes brothers that prevented us from being anything more than acquaintances. Mother just saw it as a petty feud between two siblings, perhaps she was right, but we were both too selfish to ever actually like each other.

I suppose people wonder if I knew my brother was a fraud. No, I know my brother was not a fraud. He was as real as the next consulting detective; just a same there never was one to compare him to.

We may have never got along, but I know my brother, and I can see the truth.

Sherlock Holmes was not a liar.

But then something rips through me, something I've never experience before, I think I can put a name to it though:

Guilt.

It's my fault that Moriarty learnt the whole life story of Sherlock Holmes, so was able to slowly twist and joyfully manipulate it before he had enough proof to show that the truth was a lie. I should have been aware of what was going to happen when he was so happy to get even the slightest facts about my brother, but I was greedy for any information he had.

My cold eyes looked through the writing scratched on the wall, just one name repeated over and over again, but always seemed to be filled with hate, malice and a longing for revenge:

Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock.

Then I let Moriarty go, into the wide world, and within a few months my brother had thrown himself off the roof of St Bart's without warning, because his whole life had been ripped apart by one man.

In the darkest moments, I realise that man was me.

I know John hates me now, a few months ago I wouldn't have cared, how many friends do you think I have? He was just another ordinary civilian walking the streets, the only difference was he helped my brother solve crimes.

But I know why he hates me, he blames me for what happened to Sherlock.

I blame myself as well.

Not that I'm going to tell anyone that. Everyone thinks that I have no soul, when it comes to emotion I am empty shell. Let them keep thinking that, I don't care, and perhaps this is my punishment for my brother's death, letting the thoughts run round my head and eat away at my insides, because I can tell no one.

I can't even bring myself to tell mother.

What would I say? The whole world thinks your son is a fraud, and it's my fault. He threw himself off a building, because I opened my mouth. You have just one son, and it is because of that living son that you lost your little Sherlock.

I cannot tell her. I hate to think what will happen when she reads it in the newspaper. Maybe I should go and visit her in a few days, she would know for definite by then that her son was dead, and I wouldn't have to explain anything, I can just comfort her as best I can and let her mourn the way normal people norm.

What a cowardly way to get out, but I suppose I've always been a bit of a coward. I've never been ashamed of that fact before, but now I hate myself for it.

Yet I believe that there is something else.

Sherlock is not a man to throw himself off a building for no reason whatsoever, and I know it's not because everyone thought he was a fraud. His death confirms what everyone believed, so why would he do that? When did he care what other people thought in the first place? So there must be a deeper reason why he killed himself. Perhaps he's not even dead, he's my brother, he's always been up to some sort of trick, always planning everything, maybe he had an idea up his sleeve so he never did die that day.

Or maybe it's just wishful thinking.

Meanwhile, I will say nothing about my brother, I will pretend I am not related to this Sherlock Holmes, I will keep a straight face and look as heartless as ever. I don't care what other people might think of that.

Just as long as they don't know on the inside, I am mourning just like a normal person and tormented by guilt that my only brother is now nothing but a few words carved onto a cold gravestone. And it's all because of me.


	3. A Good Man

_Thanks for all your reviews for the last chapter everyone, please keep them up! :D_

_Someone requested if I could do Lestrade next, so here he is! Unfortunately I struggled a little with this one, and it's not my best so far, but I hope it's all right :)_

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><p><span>The Darkest Moments, Chapter 3<span>

A Good Man

As I walk into my office on Monday morning, I find myself amazed that I actually still have a job. After all, my Boss just found out that I have been using a consulting detective to help solve my cases, which obviously isn't allowed. And then it turns out that Sherlock Holmes wasn't even a consulting detective, he was a liar, he had made it all up, he may have even _created_ cases so he could solve them. That just makes things even worse, and it's put the whole of the police force to shame because they allowed him to help.

Sherlock had managed to fool everyone for so many years, so in some ways, while everyone else is accusing him of foolishness and being idiotic, I still see him as a genius. Not many people would be able to pull off a stunt like that for so long.

Maybe that's why he couldn't live with the guilt and killed himself.

But even though my colleagues believe that Sherlock was a fraud, and deserves everything that is said about him in the newspaper, I'm not so convinced. I had known Sherlock for years, and never once did I question if he was a fake. Of course I always questioned all the strange things he said and did, I'll admit to that, and I did sometimes feel I was being taken along for a ride, or trying to control a child that enjoys stealing and hiding things from me. But never once did I turn around and say "You're making this all up, you're a fraud."

Because despite that Sherlock was...well, Sherlock, I trusted him. And he did have a kind heart, he was just very good and concealing it.

Someone who is a liar and a fake does not throw someone out the window several times because they scared the landlady. Of course they wouldn't, you just know these things.

Some people think Sherlock's a killer now, if he made up all the cases, where did the dead body come from? How did he exactly know who they were, where they lived, how they died? But they don't see the number of lives Sherlock saved because of the work he did, even if he was fake, he had saved lives.

But then he threw himself off the roof a building, for no apparent reason, the only one being that he couldn't live with the fact that the whole world knew he was a fraud.

In the darkest moments, I believe all the newspapers and what my colleagues said about him. I get so angry with myself, furious that I ever trusted the man. After all, how _could_ someone know so many things from such little evidence? He's made me look like such a fool, he deceived everyone close to him, no wonder he couldn't live with himself any more.

But then I look back at all the things I did with Sherlock, and I realise I'm being an idiot. I'm just focusing on the last case we did together, and assuming that just because a little girl screamed everything I believed about Sherlock was wrong. I'm not looking at the full picture, at all the work we did together. Besides, him being a fraud is the most obvious reason for his sudden suicide, and being 'normal' (Sherlock was never one for raising your self-esteem, that's for certain) I would look at the obvious for a conclusion.

I listened to the last phone call Sherlock made on his phone, and there's something in his voice during that conversation that makes me believe everything he's saying is a lie. The third time I listen to that conversation, I realise what it is - he's scared. He may even be crying, there's something catching in his throat as he talks to John. He doesn't want to do this, he doesn't want to tell these lies, and he doesn't want to die. So there must be another reason why he did it, and him being a fraud is not one of them. Despite what anyone says, how much doubt I feel, deep down I still believe him, because I know Sherlock, he was my friend.

No one would believe me if I said it, but I actually miss Sherlock. My phone buzzes when I'm talking and I expect it to be from Sherlock, telling me whatever I had just said was wrong, or that he had just solved a case for me. The random drugs busts were a laugh, especially when I could see it was driving Sherlock up the wall. Whenever I lose my police badge I roll my eyes, thinking that Sherlock's pick-pocketed me again, but then I remember I just left it at home, and that's a lot less fun.

I see Sergeant Donavan and Anderson's face, they don't think the same way, they don't care, they're probably a lot happier now Sherlock's gone. They don't see the great man who once walked among us, perhaps they never did. They never gave Sherlock the chance to prove that he was a good man either. I think he was a good man.

Things are a lot less exciting around here as well, as if Sherlock really did bring all the trouble along with him. I fear the next time a serial killer raises its ugly head, or a child goes missing, because those are the moments when you really need a consulting detective who can work it all out within a day. He risked his life to help others, in many ways, he's lucky to have survived this long.

Then he cut it all short.

There are many things that I will never understand about Sherlock, and that is one of them.

I get worried about John, I try ringing him, but he never answers. Maybe I should give him time to mourn, but I hate to think what might be going through his head, and surely it's better to talk to someone who knew Sherlock just as well? His best friend told him everything about him was a lie, he was a fake, then he jumped.

I've seen some horrible things in my life, but nothing like that, I'm relieved that all I can do is imagine it.

In the end, twitching to be able to talk to someone about Sherlock, but finding no one, and John still unwilling to talk, I send him a text. Five words, and then I'll have to carry on with my work and try not to think about how London was once a lot safer because of one man, and in return they tore him apart. I send John just five words because I can't say them to anyone else:

_I still believe in him._

And I wish I'd never doubted him.


	4. A Seed of Doubt

_This chapter is about Sgt. Donovan (another request! :D) I hope you enjoy it!_

_Please review! :) _

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><p><span>The Darkest Moments, Chapter 4<span>

A Seed of Doubt

The world's gone quiet, there's a strange feeling that hangs in the air, a knowledge that no one speaks of. Everyone gets on with their work though, they pretend there's nothing wrong. But there is something, and it's taken its nest in the forefront of their minds, you can see it in their concerned eyes as you walk past. Something is missing, something is gone.

While many may not be able to put a finger on it, they just know something has disappeared from their life, from this police force, I know exactly what it is.

The freak's gone.

Even though people give me a disapproving look when I call him that, the past week proves that I was right in calling him a freak, it fitted him better than I expected. Not only did Sherlock enjoy examining dead bodies and making people feel worthless, he enjoyed creating crime as well, and had probably put many bodies in front of us, we just don't know how many specifically, we may never know. It got to the freak in the end though, and before we could anything more than threaten to arrest him, he threw himself off the roof of St Bart's and within seconds he was lying in a puddle of his own blood.

But maybe freak's a bit much of a harsh term, after all, Sherlock Holmes is dead now, and you should always respect the dead, no matter what that person might have been like. I can see that some people are saddened by this loss, but they say nothing, knowing it would sound weird to turn around and comment "I wish that man who had lied and deceived all of us for so long wasn't dead. I miss the man who quite probably kidnapped, murdered and took drugs in his spare time for a laugh."

Anderson's happier now, I can see it in the corner of his mouth, a little twitch of a smile as he works, but he says nothing, as he knows you shouldn't be pleased that someone's dead, no matter how much you may have hated them. I certainly didn't like Sherlock and am slightly relieved he's gone, but I do feel a little sorry. Not for Sherlock, but for the people he caused all that pain and suffering to. I did warn them what might happen, how Sherlock's mind thinks, but they turned their back on me. They wanted the fun and the adventure that Sherlock brought with him, and didn't think of the consequences.

I don't think anyone expected this outcome though. Perhaps Sherlock did have a good side to him then, if he had that much guilt dwelling inside him he could no longer live.

But all the things he put people through, does he really deserve any sympathy at all?

In the darkest of moments I hear the little girl screaming, and I feel nothing for Sherlock Holmes. Who did the man think he was? Sweeping into other people's lives, thinking he knew everything and that he could never be defeated, not caring about who he might affect and how. I had never trusted him from the start, everyone knew that, and he could probably see that. But some people still think that he was a great man, he did the right things, they still believe in him. Despite all that had happened over the past couple of weeks, all that was said in the newspapers and his suicide 'note', some people still think Sherlock is the man he once claimed he was.

I'm just glad that I worked out who Sherlock really was before anyone else got hurt. Of course for many in his life it is too late, I'm just glad I decided to tell Lestrade my concern, rather than let Sherlock continue o his rampage...

But then the little boy wakes up from his coma.

He wasn't as scared as his sister, he wasn't afraid to speak to the police. He told us that a man came to him and his sister in the middle of the night, put a gun to his head and took them away into the darkness.

What did this man look like?

The little boy didn't know, the man was wearing a mask.

A mask? What did this mask look like?

The little boy drew it for us, and I found myself looking down at Sherlock's face. More description fitted what Sherlock wore and was similar to his height, but his eyes were wrong – the boy said the eyes were dark and cold. Sherlock's eyes were certainly cold, yes, but dark? No, his eyes were not dark. And why would Sherlock kidnap someone while wearing a mask of his own face? It didn't make sense.

Unless, of course, Sherlock wasn't the one who kidnapped the children. It was done by someone who wanted us to think it was Sherlock.

And then that Richard Brooke is found dead on the rooftop as well, no sign of a struggle, clearly not murder, perhaps he had a lot of guilt too.

So I begin to wonder, just as I began to wonder if Sherlock was all he said he was, if he was a fraud like I claimed him to be. What if it was a set up to make Sherlock look like the guilty one, so everyone would begin to doubt him?

Nevertheless I still don't like Sherlock Holmes, don't get me wrong, just because he suddenly died doesn't mean all of a sudden I see him as a nice person and is innocent of all charges. But sometimes I find myself wondering if he was really as bad as I thought he was, it may even have been possible that he wasn't a fraud.

I'm not sorry for speaking out, I still believe I did the right thing, but is it because I spoke out that Sherlock could no longer live with himself, even if he knew he wasn't the guilty one?

I was the first one to start doubting Sherlock Holmes, it was because of me people started to turn against him and drove him to the edge, but now it seems he may not have lied to us after all. I planted a seed of doubt, I just took the opportunity to turn against a freak, but then everyone began to follow my train of thought. So then I begin to wonder...

Am I a murderer?


	5. Some Strange Things

_This is the last character's thoughts (Mrs Hudson) I shall be writing for this story (I know, it's so short!) unless there are any other characters you can think of that I could write their thoughts on, as requests are appreciated :) and don't worry, as there is one more chapter to go after this one..._

_If anyone's interested, I've just started writing another Sherlock story called 'Twelve Weeks', that looks at how John is coping (or rather not coping!) with Sherlock's 'death', and the events that happen after Sherlock's gone. Feel free to have a read! :D Reviews on it are a little down at the moment :(_

_Anyway, enjoy this chapter :) reviews much appreciated!_

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><p><span>The Darkest Moments, Chapter 5<span>

Some Strange Things

I keep on finding bits of his stuff everywhere, every time I think I've cleared everything out, there's another microscope hidden under the bed or there's a collection of animal bones in the cutlery draw. At least there are no more dead bodies in the fridge, so the place is now feeling a little more hygienic, although for some reason I can't bring myself to throw away his skull. I've never liked the thing, the way it sits on the mantelpiece, staring at me with its empty eyes, the number of times I've already tried to hide it or get rid of it, but Sherlock always seems to find a way of getting it back. However now I just want to leave it there, I can't bring myself to discard it along with his other things, because I know he was so attached to it.

It feels strange, now having an empty room at 221B Baker Street, going home, waking up and living in a silent house. I never thought I would experience that, because Sherlock was living here, so there would always be something going on, and if there wasn't, he'd be making too much noise and even more mess to make up for it. Sometimes I hoped that when he got older he would calm down a little bit, lay off shooting the walls or chasing after killers, but then I reminded myself that it was Sherlock, what were the chances of that happening?

I certainly never expected to discover that he had killed himself.

It was such a terrible thing, and Sherlock was at such a young age. John doesn't want to talk about what happened, he's in mourning and probably doesn't want to upset me by admitting the way Sherlock died, and why he did it. But I've been told everything, you can't get away from the truth.

It's certainly upsetting, hearing about what happened. I try to pretend it hasn't really affected me that much, I'm just a little upset that I've lost a friend. But truth be told it's hit me harder than that, because Sherlock was a lot more than a friend, in fact, he was like a son. Despite all his vices (sometimes I'm amazed that Baker Street is still standing) he was a lovely young man, he had a good heart, he just tried his hardest to hide it, and he cared about the people in his life. It's so horrible to think that for all this time he had lied to us, that in actual fact he wasn't a consulting detective, just good at making up cases. But I will never deny the fact that he was a good man. I realised I was right when the American came to the house and put a gun to my head, I could see then that Sherlock was worried, and apparently even threw the man out the window. He did some strange things, but most of the time they were the right things.

In the darkest moments I get angry that Sherlock had deceived me, had deceived everyone, for so long, and I wonder why I should be so upset about him after all that he did, but deep down something tells me that he's not the fraud everyone now thinks he is. Those journalists and policemen, they didn't know the real Sherlock Holmes. I'm proud to say that I did, and for all the years that I was his landlady (_not_ his housekeeper) I never suspected him to be a liar. I'd walk into the room and he'd know exactly what I had been doing for the past hour, and he had solved so many cases, how could he have made them all up?

Admittedly, there are some things I don't miss about Sherlock Holmes; his inability to recognise when he'd upset people, doing experiments of all sorts in the kitchen, damaging the furniture and leaving mess all over the place. Mess I'm still cleaning up. But I'll happily live with all those things if it meant that Sherlock could come back. I don't want tidy, quiet tenants who don't get into trouble with the police.

The trouble is it's so hard to talk about it with someone, how can I say I miss the man who jumped up and down when there was a serial killer? And that I miss the man who would shoot my walls at four in the morning? Perhaps people would understand a little more if I tried to explain to them that Sherlock meant a lot more to me than they ever realised. He was not a tenant, he was a son.

When I think about it like that, I find it almost impossible to carry on, I just want to break down with grief. But carry on we must, because longing to world to stop turning will not bring someone back from the dead.

I know John wants to leave Baker Street, I understand that, everywhere he turns in this house reminds him of a best friend who was lost so horribly and suddenly. But I don't want him to leave, because as I begin to put more and more of Sherlock's old things into cardboard boxes, to either be thrown away or stored in a dark corner to gather dust, I feel like I'm losing more of him. If John leaves, there will be little left of the memory of my son. Not even pictures.

I don't say anything though, I just get on with tidying Sherlock's things away, muttering to myself whenever I come across something burnt or broken. There's an empty bedroom now, but I don't offer it to any potential tenants, because to me, it's still Sherlock's room, and sometimes when I walk past it with the door ajar, I think I see him sitting on the bed, but then I just realise it's nothing but a pile of clothes.

I still leave the bedroom door open though, and sometimes when I leave 221B Baker Street I don't lock the door, just in case my son comes home.


	6. The Girl Everyone Ignores

_This is not the last chapter of this story, as someone has given me another character to write on - Molly Hooper! :) So I hope it's ok!_

_Sorry about the delayed update, I've had a pretty busy week. _

_Reviews much appreciated! :)_

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><p><span>The Darkest Moments, Chapter 6<span>

The Girl Everyone Ignores

I sometimes feel like I'm leading a criminal life. Bit over the top I know, I suppose I've always over-exaggerated things in one way or another, it's probably because I've just see too many crime and action films. I never thought how different it would be when it's happening in real life. Perhaps I should just stick to working with dead bodies instead of harbouring a fugitive. Well, he's not a fugitive, he's just Sherlock Holmes, I've known him since he stormed into the morgue at St Bart's on my first asking to borrow dead bodies. Who knew this man would actually end up hiding in my house. It's quite weird.

I get worried if I think the police are at my door. They did try to arrest Sherlock once, if he was still alive would they try to arrest him again? And if they did, would I get into trouble for hiding Sherlock away and not tell anyone that the whole event was a lie? Everyone now believes that Sherlock is dead, apart from me, quiet little Molly Hooper who always seems to say the wrong thing. But just once, I managed to say the right thing.

I knew there was something wrong with Sherlock soon after this whole, strange, Reichenbach event started. When he came into the lab at St Bart's his eyes were full of determination, but as time went past that determination wilted away, and he started to look sad instead, scared even. Of course he said and did nothing, he just carried on as if nothing was wrong, but I could tell something was, I'd seen it in my dad. I told him I could see it, and he couldn't deny it.

Then Sherlock actually came and asked _me_ for help. Me? The girl who spends her days in the morgue with all the dead bodies? The girl who feels awkward in whatever situation she's put in? I knew then there was definitely something serious and sinister going on, and with all these stories running around about Sherlock isn't all what he says he is (complete lies, of course) I knew I had to help. What I didn't expect was Sherlock to ask me to help him _pretend_ to die. It would mean lying to everyone, probably breaking the law, and it may even be dangerous. If something went wrong, Sherlock could be in serious trouble. But if I did nothing he'd be in even more trouble, and I had promised to help, so I did.

In the darkest moments I feel terribly guilty, more than I ever expected I would feel, because I have left everyone believing that Sherlock is dead. I can see the pain they feel that their friend and colleague has died, and in such a terrible way. The confusion and anger is plain on their faces when they realise that they were deceived by Sherlock for so long. I can see it's hit John pretty hard, he doesn't know what to do with himself, his mind is so conflicted by Sherlock's suicide and him being an apparent fraud, the man's completely lost. I want to comfort John and tell him, tell all of them who have lost their faith in the consulting detective, that Sherlock is innocent, he's a good man, he's just trying to protect you. He told me what Moriarty threatened to do, and I can understand why he had to do it, there was no other way. I'm the one who knows the truth, but others need to know as well.

It's sometimes so hard to keep such a big secret as well, I've always been a bit of a blabber mouth, almost always regretting what I've said by the time I've said it, and having a supposedly dead man hiding in your house is something you really feel you can't keep to yourself at times. Especially when you see how much suffering this secret is causing. I don't care if I just whisper it in a stranger's ear or stand on the roof of St Bart's and scream it out, I have to tell someone!

But I cannot, I just slink into the shadows and say nothing, act like I've lost a friend as well and due to grief I find it hard to talk about it. Despite never being a particularly good liar, people believe it and don't question it, because no one really sees Molly Hooper.

For once, being the girl everyone ignores has become beneficial. Sherlock used to ignore me all the time, and it was because of that I noticed something was wrong, and I got him to confess and perhaps even helped save his life. He notices me a bit more now, mainly because he's living in my house (he may be a dead consulting detective but that doesn't stop him doing experiments on dead bodies in _my_ kitchen) and I think he's actually grateful that I was willing to help. Other people still don't notice me, but now I don't mind so much, because they're used to me acting a little strangely, so they don't realise that I'm hiding something.

Sometimes, the whole event makes me feel rather heroic in a way. I've saved a life, possibly more than one, and no one knows, no one thinks that Molly Hooper would be hiding such a big secret. For once I feel like I've done something useful, I've done something decent, I've made a difference. I doubt anyone will really find out, but I hope one day Sherlock will be able to show his face in public again, because who knew how much guilt could come with a small act of heroism, and I don't know how long I keep much a secret. But most importantly, the world needs to stop remembering his name with hate and realise that Sherlock Holmes is a great man. I've always seen him as a great man, and even now, I have not lost my faith in him.


	7. Observing the Scene

_Another request! :D This one is for Anthea (Mycroft's assistant from series one) so I hope it's ok!_

_I've done I've had a few requests for Irene Adler, so I'd like to say that I have something special planned for her at the end of the story, so other character suggestions are welcome, but Miss Adler's in reserve... ;)_

_Anyway, enjoy the chapter, and please review! :)_

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><p><span>The Darkest Moments, Chapter 7<span>

Observing the Scene

My boss has been sad recently. Of course he tries his best to hide it, but when you really look, the sadness is there, carved deep into his heart. Most people don't notice, they're too busy getting on with their own work, only catching Mycroft Holmes' eye for a couple of moments, perhaps they'll exchange a few words, but that's it. Me, I'm around Mycroft most of the time, and my work doesn't require much brain power, so my mind has time to wonder and look a little deeper. I can see the truth that everyone else ignores.

A lot of people think I'm not that bright. I'm just a pretty, well spoken girl who's on her phone all the time and does what she's told. That's all it is to her. Nothing else important, nothing really special. I pretend to be dumb as well sometimes, to let people believe that they are the smarter one, they have the upper hand, it's like I'm playing a little game with them, because I know that I am bright and I am clever. Staying in the presence of Mycroft for a long time has its benefits, I've started picking up on a few of his tricks. I can observe what others overlook.

I'd not really met Sherlock Holmes, never had a proper sit down and talk to him, Mycroft finds it difficult to tie that man down, so I would have no chance. I know a lot about him though, Mycroft talks and worries about him a lot, and I've done my own bit of research into Sherlock, as you never get the full story or can fully trust Mycroft Holmes. Even when he's your boss, you can never really trust him. I saw Sherlock in the newspaper too, looked at the pictures (that hat did suit him) and read what the journalists said about him. After observing everything I feel like I'm the last person in the world who knows the truth - Sherlock Holmes was not a fraud.

It all happened very fast, one minute the newspapers were singing praises for Mr Sherlock Holmes, the Reichenbach hero, who was helping solve crimes and save lives. In the next everyone started doubting him, he was being called a liar, a cheat, a fraud. They even said Sherlock may have made up some cases so he could solve them. I told my boss, but he just shook his head and told me not to worry about it.

"Anything can be printed in the newspaper these days." He said to me with a thin smile.

But I observed the concern and worry in his eyes, whatever was happening that was making the newspapers say all these horrible things about his brother, it was bothering Mycroft. But I certainly never expected Sherlock Holmes to die, I don't think even Mycroft did. It tore him apart, but I was the only one who noticed. He carries on like it's any other day, and people don't question what he might be thinking, because it's Mycroft, he's never been very emotional, but I know, I see it.

I'd only encountered Sherlock Holmes properly once, it was a couple of years ago now, before he had met Dr Watson. Mycroft had gone up to see him at St Bart's when he was working in a lab to ask him about something 'confidential'. It was on that day I decided I didn't want to wait in the car, I wanted to meet this mysterious Holmes, my boss' brother, so I went up with Mycroft. He didn't say anything when I followed him, he trusts me.

Sherlock wasn't interested in the case Mycroft had given him, nor was he interested in me, I don't think he even looked at me, he was too busy trying to avoid talking to his brother and getting on with whatever strange specimen was under his microscope. My boss introduced me anyway.

"This is my assistant." He said, glancing over in my direction, I was standing in the corner of the lab, pretending to be more interested in my phone. I glanced up and gave a small smile.

"Well that's obvious isn't it?"Sherlock muttered under his breath in response, suddenly deciding that the floor was a lot more interesting than his brother.

With this conversation clearly not going anywhere, I decided to try and get to know the detective a little better, my smile broadened and I held out a hand. "Hi, I'm Jenny." I said brightly.

Sherlock wasn't interested, he didn't respond with my greeting, he merely murmured. "And that's obviously not your real name."

I must admit I was not insulted by Sherlock's rude behaviour, by what I heard Mycroft say about him I was not surprised he would act in this way. Instead I was impressed that he had worked out Jenny was not my real name. These were the days when I actually tried to disguise my actual identity, because my whole job was so 'secretive', now I just pick a random name out the sky and see how bright the person is by how long it takes them to work out that's not my name. But today I was actually trying to deceive Sherlock Holmes, and I failed badly. He was all what they said then, he could sum people up in three minutes, and so could I. His eyes were alive with intelligence , his mind always working away on something, his restlessness showing his urge or adventure and a challenge. I was impressed by what I saw.

I never thought he might end up killing himself.

People think that Mycroft doesn't care about his brother, but the way he always wanted to go and visit him, when he tried to pay people to spy on him and constantly talking about him, I could tell that Mycroft cared a great deal about his brother, but now he's dead. He tries to spy on Sherlock's friend Dr Watson now, because he can tell the event's hit the man hard, but I can see it's affected Mycroft pretty badly as well, worse than anyone thought.

I'm not really sure what to think about it myself, never really knowing the detective apart from the stories his brother told. In the darkest moments I feel myself going cold, I'd met a lot of people, so why should I care about this man in particular? But when I draw out of those dim thoughts I feel a little saddened myself. Such a waste of life, he could have gone so much further, the man was a genius, and he was important to so many people, he hurt a lot of people.

But I always felt, after that meeting with Sherlock Holmes, that he was always hiding something. Maybe it was because Mycroft was in the room so he tried to hide everything he was thinking or feeling, but all the time I've been working for my boss, I've seen that Sherlock always comes out of the other side of whatever challenge, coolly and calmly as if he had planned it all along. Yes, I can see Sherlock Holmes to be a man who always had an idea up his sleeves.

People don't see the whole side of me, and I don't think people saw the whole side of Sherlock either. There's a lot more to both of us than meets the eye. But I shall say nothing, I will continue silently observing the scene, doing as I'm told, pretending to be bored, when really I see a lot more than people will ever suspect.

When I walk home after a hard day of not doing much work, I sometimes stare up at the black sky and the few twinkling stars, and think to myself all that I have learned and experienced, and I wonder if I might encounter my boss' brother on one of those dark nights, because I don't think he's dead.


	8. The Shadows

_Once again I must apologies for a delayed update, I would have put this chapter up earlier only fanfiction was down :(_

_Anyway, this chapter was a request for Henry Knight, so I hope you like it! :)_

_Only 2 reviews for the last chapter :(_

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><p><span>The Darkest Moments, Chapter 8<span>

The Shadows

I thought I had started hallucinating again that morning, when I picked up the newspaper and found the words on front page screaming out at me: Sherlock Holmes was a liar, a fraud, a cheat, and he's just thrown himself off a building because of this.

I remember throwing the newspaper aside as my vision began to blur with rage and confusion.

How can this be true?

I hadn't known Sherlock for as long as other people, but he helped me solve a mystery that had been plaguing my mind for so many years, and I wouldn't be surprised if he had saved my life too. I was so desperate by the end and my world was falling apart. Then Sherlock agreed to help and the Hound disappeaed, so I no longer needed to fear the shadows.

But then I wake up one morning and the media is telling me that all the great detective had said and done, was a lie.

I didn't believe a word at first, the man came to the moors without a clue of what was lurking there, not even believing there was anything wrong, but from there he managed to work out a secret that had been kept hidden for so long and rid me of the Hound. How could he have done all of that if he wasn't a true consulting detective?

But then I hear the news that he had killed himself. He couldn't live with the guilt so he threw himself off a building.

If he wasn't a fraud, why did he throw himself off a building? Surely he didn't care what people thought of him, especially if they were just empty lies? Perhaps there is some truth in it...

And once again, within moments, my whole world has fallen apart.

Sherlock Holmes had helped draw me out of a life of confusion and insanity, I began to trust him and after he helped solve the case of the Hound, I would trust him with my life. But now it seems that everything he did was a lie, he did not solve any mystery, he did not destroy my demons. What does that mean for me?

I had stopped having nightmares after the beast was destroyed, after it all turned out there was nothing but hallucinating gas and loose dog on the moors. My childhood memories were still traumatic, but now they made more sense and I could begin to sleep easy once again. But the day I discovered that Sherlock Holmes was dead and everyone was accusing him of being a liar, my dreams were plagued by a monstrous hound, a terrible beast tearing a man apart while I could do nothing but stare. I woke up shaking, drenched in cold sweat and gasping for air as I tried to shake the terrible images from my mind.

From that day it has not get any better.

In the darkest moments I'm too afraid to even go outside into the dark, because the man who chased the monsters out of the shadows is dead. I begin to grow paranoid, simply sitting around the house at night waiting for my past to come back and haunt me.

At least I know it's all in my head now, but that does little to reduce my fear, and I have little comfort or hope for the future now Sherlock Holmes is dead. I'm growing confused again, not knowing what's real and what's not. Did I merely imagine that the consulting detective had destroyed the Hound?

No, I'm sure he worked it out, it was the talk of the town. The man had solved the case, it can't be just in my head.

Sherlock Holmes deserves to know how many lives he managed to change, whatever the truth might be about him. When I begin to believe that he was a fraud, I am filled with rage and want him to know how many different people he affected and lied to, so his guilt could grow worse. But then the feeling washes over me, as I begin to realise once more that he was a good man and not a liar, then I hope he knew how many people he managed to help, and that some still believe in him.

I saw in one of the newspapers that his friend and roommate, Dr John Watson, still believes in the consulting detective. Apparently John was a witness for when Sherlock jumped. I cannot imagine what the man must be going through now, seeing his best friend throw himself off a building.

For one, wild moment I decide I should go down to London and visit John, to give him some form of comfort and let him know he isn't the only one who still believes in Sherlock Holmes. But within seconds I have brushed the thought away. If I went up to London and met with John Watson I wouldn't know what to say or do, and he might not want to talk to me anyway, after all, the man is in mourning. I'm a figure of Sherlock's past, I'm sure John doesn't want to be continuously reminded of his recently deceased friend.

Besides, by the time it's ready to leave and go back home it'll be dark, and the ominous darkness has been making me feel uneasy, sending shivers up my spine and my breath catches in my throat as I wait for the howl of a monstrous hound.

I hate being such a coward. A grown man being afraid of the dark? Shameful. I don't tell anyone, because I hate to think what they might think about me, but I can't talk to my therapist, because I assumed I had got better and dismissed her. I wish I hadn't, I really need someone confidential to talk about my newly awakened fears.

Now Sherlock's gone, and has been revealed as a fraud and a fake, the shadows have returned at night. I just cling onto the hope that, by the time morning comes, the world would have realised that they were wrong and Sherlock Holmes had always been a good man and was never a liar. Maybe then I can stop fearing the darkness of my past, the sun can obliterate the shadows.

In the meantime I wait. I avoid the shadows and try to push away the nightmares, trying in vain to convince myself that the howling I hear on the moors is nothing but a normal dog. I try to remain brave and strong, even in the darkest moments, because Sherlock Holmes took the Hound away, it is up to me to keep it away, so his work was not wasted.


	9. An Inspiration

_I bought another Sherlock Holmes book yesterday! :D The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes, I have four of the books now, and will look forward to reading it :)_

_Anyway, this chapter was a request for Dimmock (from The Blind Banker) I hope you enjoy!_

_Please review :)_

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><p><span>The Darkest Moments, Chapter 9<span>

An Inspiration

Let's face it, when Sherlock Holmes walked into the room and opened his mouth, your brain suddenly became the size of a pea and your ego so small the consulting detective would have to observe it under one of his annoying microscopes. You wouldn't think such a man would walk into a crime scene from the street and be able to do that, especially to a detective (_not_ a Sergeant, as I had to find myself pointing out to Sherlock). But clearly there was someone, and it just so happened to by my luck that it was my case that Sherlock Holmes strode in on and pretty much took control. For those who may not have noticed, I was not impressed.

Well, I suppose that's not going to happen any more, with the famous and notorious Sherlock Holmes now being dead and buried.

I wonder how people at the police station expect me to feel about this. Relieved, uncaring, pleased, slightly amused even, by the whole thing? Because Sherlock Holmes drove me, and many others, up the wall, so we should be glad to see that he's gone.

But I don't feel like that. Instead I feel confused, saddened, and even a little lost about the whole thing.

Because although I never told anyone, I thought Sherlock Holmes was a great man, indeed, he was an inspiration.

True, I didn't like him when I first encountered him, this strange 'consulting detective' taking over my case and telling me everything I believed to be true to be absolute nonsense, pointing out that I was doing everything wrong and coming up with some insane theory about a simple suicide actually being quite a complicated murderer.

However after a few days I had to confess that Sherlock was right about everything he said in our first encounter. I had got everything totally wrong and it certainly wasn't just a simple suicide. Although I was not the one to have solved the case, at least someone did, and the murders ceased. For that we should all be grateful for Sherlock Holmes, but instead we turn green with envy and start believing that there must have been some other way for him to have worked it all out. Then the theory about the detective possibly being a fraud comes out, and everyone who had heard Sherlock say one bad thing against them jumped at the chance for revenge.

Maybe you would think that I was one of them, as he did make me feel like an idiot. But I was not, I did not go against Sherlock Holmes. In fact if I had the chance I would have stood up for him, but I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I was busy solving a case in Edinburgh, and wasn't there to help the consulting detective as he was driven so close to the edge by all the accusations he ended up throwing himself off a building.

Whatever anyone else says, I still believe that Sherlock was not a fraud or a cheat or a liar. I saw him at work, and there was no crude game afoot, it was the work of a true genius.

Sherlock Holmes told me that if I followed in his footsteps, I would go a long way. I waved the comment away, just trying hard not to give him a rude gesture for taking over my case and making me feel like a complete fool. But, and I don't tell anyone this, I did follow Sherlock's advice in the end. I picked up on his original detective skills and used it in my future cases, I questioned everything I saw and took nothing for granted. I sort of became my own miniature version of Sherlock Holmes, and I did end up finding myself going a long way, solving cases that stumped other detectives to the point they thought it would remain unsolved. I continued to get promoted, going around the country to solve the toughest of crimes and to keep people safe. And I owe all of that because of Sherlock Holmes.

But now he's dead, and no one seems to care.

In the darkest moments I feel completely lost, confused, even angry, as if I had depended so much on a living idle I don't know what to do with myself now he is dead and I hate everyone who is glad he is gone. People are foolish, they don't realise how much we need a man like Sherlock Holmes, and I believe it was because of other people not having enough faith in him that Sherlock killed himself. What a waste.

I wonder how I am able to return to London with the streets full of people dumb enough to belief what was said about Sherlock in the newspapers. They had never met him, they had never seen him do his work, if they did I think they would realise he was a true consulting detective, he was not a liar. The liars were the journalists trying believing in a fairy tale to try and sell some more newspapers.

I met Sally Donovan one day, one of the first things she said was that she was glad Sherlock was gone. I glared at her, clenching my fists, but said nothing. She expected me to agree with her, she also had experienced what it was like to work on a case with Sherlock Holmes, how useless it makes you feel. But I could see that Sherlock was really a great man, despite his thoughts, and I knew that Sally didn't mean what she said, because there was a glitter of sadness in her dark eyes, as if she regretted every dark thought that came into her head about Sherlock Holmes.

Perhaps I should move somewhere else, get away from London and their crude comments about Sherlock, and get a job as a detective in Wales or Scotland or somewhere where his name is less heard of. Or maybe I should stay here and help spread the word that Sherlock can and was a good man, he was an inspiration and changed many lives, mostly for the better. People need to hear the truth about him, because I don't believe a word the newspapers say.

Either way, I feel a pang of regret that I never got to speak to Sherlock Holmes properly again after working on my case with him. He may be annoying, irritating, bossy, rude, ridiculously clever and insulting, but I needed to say to him: thank you. Thank you for the inspiration.


	10. More Tales to Tell

_This character request was for John's (I shall assume now ex!) girlfriend Sarah from series 1. I'm afraid I struggled a little bit with this chapter, so I hope it's ok :)_

_Please review! :)_

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><p><span>The Darkest Moments, chapter 10<span>

More Tales to Tell

I have to admit it has been several months since I've spoken to John, but if there was a time to contact him, it would be now.

I had just seen it on the news, I had put the television on while I had my breakfast, but when I saw what was on the screen I was so shocked I dropped the bowl of cereal.

Sherlock Holmes. Famous consulting detective, has just killed himself.

How was that possible?

I didn't know Sherlock that well, but he was the roommate of a late boyfriend, so I knew who he was, I had seen him around, I had spoken to him once or twice and he had hijacked a couple of our dates, which John found irritating and I found amusing.

He even saved my life once.

Unfortunately Sherlock was the reason I realised I couldn't be with John any more, the consulting detective was always in trouble or needed help or looking after, and because he was John's friend and roommate, he came first. I came second, which I suppose isn't too bad, it could be worse, but if being second means sitting around for hours waiting for your date, having your date abandon you with no clear explanation why and your date almost getting killed because of the consulting detective, it was something I quickly lost patience with. Of course this is not a good topic to bring up at all now, and I wasn't specific when I broke up with John, I just told him we couldn't work it out any more. I could see he was sad but he said he understood, and I think he did know it was because of Sherlock Holmes that I broke up with him, but I was fed up of getting so scared so many times for our lives and being left alone.

After that I had hardly heard from him. Sometimes I saw his face in the background of a newspaper image of Sherlock Holmes, whose fame had begun to grow and grow over the past year.

Someone should have warned Sherlock that soon the media turns against you, maybe someone did, but he didn't listen, because the last couple of weeks all the praise about Sherlock Holmes in the newspaper or on the television had turned into bitter ash and everyone started accusing him of being a fraud.

I felt sorry for both John and Sherlock, it must have been hard for them with all this negative media attention and that strange man, Moriarty, who I really did not like the look of, going around and causing trouble. But things were only about to get worse, when out of the blue Sherlock committed suicide, and John was left all alone.

My hand reaches towards the phone, wanting desperately to give him a call, to talk to him and comfort him about the whole thing, but when I begin to dial the number I realise I have nothing to say, and decide against talking to him.

I wondered if John might call me, perhaps he needed a bit of company, and he should know that I would be willing to give it. After a week of hearing nothing, I eventually decided to ring him, only to find that he's not picking up his phone. These things happened before, but before I just sighed and rolled my eyes, however now I feel quite worried about John. What must be going through his head?

And then there's the whole debate over whether Sherlock was a fraud or not.

Going to 221B Baker Street, you would find evidence everywhere of the man who lived there was a up to something. Lab equipment was scattered in every room, strange chemicals in the sink, body parts in the fridge, even a skull over the fireplace, and those were just the things I saw, not the stories that John would tell me about when he was on a rant about Sherlock.

The way he acted sometimes, anyone would think that he and Sherlock hated each other, but no, I could see the close bondage of friendship between them, even though both tried very hard to show it didn't exist. But now Sherlock's dead and left a trail of mysteries about the truth behind him, I wouldn't be surprised if poor John has taken a turn for the worst.

In the darkest moments I grow angry, furious, because of what this so called 'consulting detective' has left behind. I start to believe the news, telling me that Sherlock was a fraud, and I hate to think how many lives he has ruined because of this, how many people had so much faith in him but he didn't care that he was leading people into such a huge lie, he was just feeding his own selfishness and greed so the media could put him on the front page.

But can you really believe what's in the media? What about people who really knew him, like John? He told the journalists after Sherlock's death that he still believed in him, and I trust John, so if John can believe in him, why can't everyone else?

But after a few weeks the media has already forgotten about the consulting detective who took his life so suddenly. They've moved onto the next scandal, but the question about Sherlock Holmes still rests upon my mind, as I'm sure it does on many others. To those who have met him, he is certainly not an easy man to forget. But at the end of the day all we can really do is wonder if we really knew him at all.

When you look into Sherlock's eyes, you see a whole succession of thoughts and mysteries. Who truly knows what that man might be thinking or plotting? There is a lot more to Sherlock than I could probably ever imagine, especially since I had hardly spoken to him, which seems like a shame now. Despite his strange mannerisms and poor social skills, I would have liked to talk to him, just to find out who he really was, see if I can deduce for myself if he really was a fraud or not.

It's sometimes hard to believe that Sherlock is dead, and I half expect to go and visit John and discover he's still alive, living and causing havoc at 221B Baker Street. The man was so mysterious, I wouldn't be surprised if I put the news on one morning to discover that the whole suicide had been some sort of trick and he was alive all along. But who knows what the future will hold about the truth of the consulting detective? I just think that Sherlock Holmes has more tales to tell.


	11. Sparks

_I've not had any more character requests, so this is the last chapter everyone! It looks at what Sherlock may have been thinking during all this time, and there's a visitation from another character as well..._

_I've really enjoyed writing this fic, and it's really nice that it ended up about 5 chapters longer than originally intended! I hope you've enjoyed reading this story as well, if you'd like to read more of my work I'm currently writing another Sherlock pro-Reichenbach story called 'Twelve Weeks', feel free to take a look, I'd love to know what you think! :)_

_I also currently have a book published on the Amazon Kindle called 'Poppy Girl', there's more detail on my profile, or you can simply go on Amazon and type it in to find it! :D I'm currently trying to get it published professionally (sent it off to a few writing agent recently to help get it published, fingers crossed!) so your support will be really appreciated :)_

_Anyway, thanks for reading! I hope this ending won't be too cheesy, would love to hear what you think of this final chapter and the story overall, so reviews are much appreciated! :D_

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><p><span>The Darkest Moments, Chapter 11<span>

Sparks

The recent rainfall gave the pavement an extra, mysterious shine as it reflected the light off the bright moon high above. It was the only light on the street apart from a few streetlamps a little way off, their sickly yellow colour attracting attention by flickering every now and again. Not that anyone would be there to see it. The road was empty, the houses on either side were dull and in shadow, you would think that on this London street had life drained from it.

But no, there were people in those houses, they were just sleeping in the dark, empty-looking rooms, oblivious to the outside world. And there was someone standing in the road, emerging from the shadows of a neighbouring street. By his silhouette you can see his wild curls of dark hair upon his head, his long black coat and a scarf around his neck. He was standing perfectly still, waiting silently for something to happen.

Who knew how long that man stood there for silently, but after a while, something did happen.

Sherlock glanced down as he felt a warm hand enclose around his cold one, and looked up to see Irene Adler standing beside them, a mischievous smile on her face, he could see her shining white teeth and the sparks that seemed to almost dance with excitement in her dark eyes.

"Hope I didn't keep you waiting," she said coolly. "Are you ready?"

Sherlock nodded, but said nothing. He kept his face straight and emotionless, but Irene could tell he was upset. She knew far more about him than anyone else did just by looking at him, and Sherlock couldn't quite decide if this was a bad thing or not.

"It's for the best," she assured him in a soft, calm voice. "You said it yourself."

This was true. Sherlock didn't want to keep hiding away at Molly's house any more, it was only meant to be temporary because he was putting her in too much danger. Molly said that she didn't mind the company, but she wouldn't like the company of an assassin if someone found out that he was still alive and hiding. No, Molly had done enough by helping him fake his death and then keeping a roof over his head, it would be unfair to keep her in so much danger for so long, it was time to move on.

But moving on was far more difficult than Sherlock had imagined. He thought about all the people he had left behind, thought of how he must have affected them by throwing himself off a building. Molly had told him how some of his friends were coping, and it wasn't good, it wasn't fair on them to suffer because of him. He was so worried about John, about Mrs Hudson, he didn't want to leave them alone any more.

He took a deep breath, but when he spoke his voice shook a little."In the darkest moments I wish I had never met any of my friends, I wish I never knew them, because they don't deserve this. I wish…" Sherlock paused, he wasn't used to pouring out his emotions, but there was something about Irene Adler that made him feel…comfortable, with saying how he actually felt inside. "I wish I wasn't alive to see them suffer because of me, it's not fair. I just want to tell them that I'm OK, that I'm not a fraud, but there's nothing I can do."

In response to this, Irene Adler reached up and kissed Sherlock gently on the cheek. "It's the best way, you know that Sherlock, because or else they would have suffered more. And one day you won't have to hide any more, you won't have to pretend you're dead. You can come back."

"They'll hate me when they find out though..."

"And they'll love you for doing the right thing," Irene said softly, her hand round Sherlock's squeezed a little tighter, after a moment or two, Sherlock squeezed back.

Then Irene's mischievous smile slowly returned, like the Cheshire cat with a brilliant idea on its mind, the sparks in her eyes in her eyes started dance again. "But while we wait for this all to die down you'll be on the run, and that's something I'm well rehearsed in."

It was Sherlock's turn to begin to smile, although he found it difficult. "I knew you'd be able to help me, that's why I found you."

Although there may possibly be another reason why Sherlock had searched for Irene, but it was something he wasn't quite ready to admit.

Suddenly Irene became serious, but her playfulness could still be heard in her voice as she looked down at their entwined hands. "So Mr Holmes, something tells me you haven't been able to see much of the world. But now we've got the time, where would you like to go first?"

At this, they both couldn't help but smile.

So the pair of unlikely adventurers walked together, hand in hand, towards a world shrouded in many more mysterious for them to solve.

Because in the darkest moments, there may still be a spark of hope for the future.


End file.
